


Luminous

by Itachi_S_Lucius



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom John, Dom Sherlock, Drama, M/M, Murder, Murder Mystery, Romance, dark themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 17:30:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2781677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itachi_S_Lucius/pseuds/Itachi_S_Lucius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two ghastly murders, involving mummified corpses and two dead deceased teenagers, has the gears in our to favourite detectives heads turning. The link between the corpses and the dead teenagers growing more evident. But that isn't the only problem. John is slowly undergoing a change that could alter his and the consulting detectives relationship in a very bad or very good way. Something has to be done fast, both problems are becoming increasingly difficult for Sherlock to take on, and changes must be made if he is to succeed in both areas. Post season 2</p>
            </blockquote>





	Luminous

Dizzy dark blue eyes stared into a corner, focusing on the very obvious dust partials settling upon the wood edging, brain vaguely speculating on how long ago it was last cleaned. Silence was vast in the room, the soul figure there simply staring, and thinking, not one word escaping chapped lips, not one sigh. The only noise that let you know the man was even alive was the very soft breathing, and calm tapping of a fingernail upon the wooden kitchen table. It had been a calm day, no texts asking for a pen, or a phone. No instead the doctor had woken up to the chanting of the rain on the roof, slowly rousing him from slumber, and calling him into action. When he had entered into the living room, it was void of one Sherlock Holmes, which was unexpected, and unnerving at the same time. But the doctor didn't question it, instead he made a cup of coffee, with some bread and butter on the side, and sat down at the table to eat, well what was left of the table, with all Sherlock's experiments in the way. That coffee had gone cold. The butter had gone soft, and the doctor was now waiting. For what; he did not know. Perhaps he was waiting for the rain to stop so he might go outside and have a stroll. Perhaps, he was simply waiting for time to pass. Or perhaps he was waiting for the return of the worlds only consulting detective. The later being one the blonds mind didn't liger on, after all why would he be waiting for the younger mans return? There wasn't a reason, therefore he concluded that was not what he was waiting for. Yet somehow, he wasn't convinced by that particular reasoning.

A soft click sounded, and those same dark blue eyes darted to the door, where Sherlock stood, obviously displeased with something. John was about to ask what he was bothering him, when he noticed the young detectives stare, John's attire, was quite obviously what was displeasing him. The former solder simply roles his eyes at this, and got up to go change, receiving an almost appreciative glance as he did so. He didn't need to be told twice that they were going somewhere important.

Once changed, John and Sherlock went outside, where it was still raining heavily, causing a few muttered curses to escape John, as he had forgotten his brolly in the flat, and Sherlock was most certainly not going to let him go get it, judging by the pace he was walking at. He was in a hurry, and was most likely anxious to get to wherever they were going, which was obviously a crime scene. They hadn't even gotten a whisper of a good case, and now they had one, Sherlock wasn't known to hurry unless he knew the case was worth his time, and this one was obviously worth his time.

As always, the crime scene was filled with people who Sherlock insisted did not need to be there, for they weren't any good at their jobs. The crime scene itself was a family house, relatively large, and light yellow. Perfect for those who wanted a comfortable life, and a typical family setup. Inside there were scattered pieces of papers and what appeared to be different types of oils on the counter. There Lestrade met them and ushered them upstairs were the murder had occurred. They had entered a small upstairs room, where a teenager lay, sprawled out upon a mess cluttered bed. Her hair was short and dirty blond, at the sides and end of her head, on the crown it was jet black and messy. Obviously it was cut into the 80's skater look, which had been huge back then, but now was considered odd. John noticed, with great discomfort that she was thin, surprisingly so, an obvious sign of malnutrition. What was even more disconcerting was the fact that her torso was completely bare. The only privicy for her corpse being the fact that she was laying on her stomach. Her eyes were open as well, and staring off the the left wall of her room, as if something devastatingly interesting was there, which there wasn't, not to mention they were wide in fear. Also her mouth was parted, as if she was  screaming at something terrifying, her lips were also black and chipped, the blackness indicating a serious infection of her saliva glands. The chipped-ness however was new and unusual.

Shaking himself slightly the former army doctor walked over to the examining consulting detective, and waited. Lestrade standing beside him shaking his head slightly at the look of the teenagers fear stricken face.

Sherlock was busy examining the hands of the girl when, his eyes widened considerably, and his jaw clenched. John was about to ask what was wrong, but before he could Sherlock got up and pulled him to the side of the room, stepping on some scattered clothing as he did so. The detectives face was tense and almost worried, but that was stretching the emotion that the man was randomly displaying.

"All evidence points to it being a suicide, by drug abuse." John felt his own expression change into one of confusion, staring it the younger -but taller- man and waited for an explanation.

"So.... Was it a suicide? And how does it appear to be drug induced?" Sherlock quickly shock his head, and stared at the girls lip figure once again. Turning back to look at John, eyes serious. Then looked back at the girl again eyes narrowing.

"This girl was very sick when she died; Her skin is red around the palms of her hands, and her ubealas are nearly yellow. Suggesting she has been poisoned but her skin is to soft for that. Also her lips are black-which I'm sure you have figured out- means infection to the saliva glands. Her hair is old fashioned, a quirk she got from one of her parents, but its been cut several times, indicating obsession. Which leads me to conclude that she is a drug addict, because of her obsessive behavior and scars on her veins beside her left ankle. But more importantly her head is hollow." This surprised John, so much so that he interrupted Sherlock's diagnoses.

"Wait, that means that someone's house -besides ours- has a human brain inside the fridge?" The doctors voice rose considerably at this, disgusted by the fact that someone would cut out another persons brain.

"Precisely." 

"But wait, surly the murderer would know that we would disprove a suicide after the autopsy. So why would he make the police believe it was a suicide?" John asked rather quietly, afraid that the consulting detective would snap at him for being incompetent.

"He's playing." With that the detective walked briskly past the army doctor, and strode out of the room, and downstairs. John simply sighed, used to the detectives antics, and followed after the swishing coat. Catching up with the taller man, the doctors mind began to twirl, asking question upon question, and coming up with deferent sorts of conclusions as to what happened to the drug addicted teen.

"But why would someone want the brain of a drug addict? Let alone a teenage girl?" The grey blond heard a slight sigh, and immediately knew that he had said something wrong.

"Do pay attention John. Her room was cluttered with papers, and open textbooks, which meant he studied a lot, she was smart -for a teenager- , some of her papers had gradings on them, all of which A's. Her clothing was neat and folded, so she was slightly OCD, but her room was messy." He stopped there waiting for the slow doctor to catch up. John knew that Sherlock had completely ignored his question on purpous because he didnt know the answer, so the doctor let it slide and focused on his task at hand. To his luck John did have an idea of what Sherlock was on about, which was made obvious when his face consorted  into one of realization.

"So she either been looking for an object, and hadn't had enough time to clean up her own mess. She was in a hurry for some reason." Sherlock nodded in approval, but John knew he must have missed something important.

"She knew her death was coming, and what to people do when they know they are about to die? They hide. In her case she hid something of great value, something that interested the killer more then her brain." Sherlock was texting as he said this, his eyes mainly focused on the phone in his hand, to pay attention   
to the still slightly confused doctor. The blond understood most of it, but there were some parts that were very unclear, like the fact that the killer was wanting to get the police curious only after the autopsy was preformed. Sherlock said it was because he was playing, but playing what? What could he accomplish by getting the police curious? Nothing, there was nothing you could do to help yourself by getting the police more involved in a case.  At least there was nothing obvious to  _him_ _._  But Sherlock must have picked up on something most people would consider unimportant while in the girls room. Yes, that must be it.

Sighing to himself for briefly doubting the detectives ability's, the doctor made his own deduction, being that he most certainly only needed a good cup of tea. Perhaps a nap.

Of course this did not happen, no apparently fate didn't like John Watson today, for when both returned home Mycroft was waiting for them. Needless to say it was an unpleasant surprise for both of them. Mycroft must have known that they would be displeased for he sat there in Sherlock's chair wearing a very smug expression, his lips curving upwards slightly at one side, and both eyes closed in a way that crinkled all his wrinkles. It could almost be described as joyful, but that would be to  _kind_  of an expression on Mycroft Holmes. No John and Sherlock both new it was the former. So both took their battle stations, Sherlock placing himself with a discomforted look, upon John's dirtied chair, and a scowl at his brother. Whilst John waltzed into the kitchen to make three cups of tea, happy to be out of the range of fire, at least for now. One doesn't need to be in the company of those two for a long time to know that both of them in the same room couldn't end well. In fact if possible John would stay for away from the elder sibling, and let Sherlock handle him. Because frankly Sherlock was the only one who  _could_.

John could hear the vaguest of the conversion, but not enough to place together what they were talking about. Whatever it was it must have caught Sherlock's interest, because he wasn't making his usual snide remarks. Which was curious enough, the detective never really listened to his brothers conversation. But when he did it was either something terribly annoying to the younger, which resulted in an argument. Or very rarely something that interested Sherlock, and temporarily excited him, usually that one involves a serial killer or intriguing murder. Now John was getting excited, because when Sherlock got excited about something, John got curious and apprehensive, that along with an incredible amount of brilliance on Sherlock part, made for a almost perfect tag team.

So John entered the living room with a generally happy expression in place. What he walked in on was a absolutely gleeful Sherlock -which was very rare, and almost scary- and a slightly concerned Mycroft. But the ex-army doctor had no doubt in his mind that he was only concerned about the amount of happiness Sherlock seemed to be emanating over whatever he had just told the detective. It was then that John noticed the pictures in the cream coloured folder, resting innocently upon the small coffee table in between the two armchairs. Yet the content of those pictures was anything but innocent. No inside were pictures of what appeared to be a dark stone tunnel, leading to nowhere in particular. That wasn't what was disturbing however, no what was disturbing was the mummified corpses that rested upon the walls of the corridor. At least six of them on each side, and probably more the further you go in. Disgusted John flipped to the next photo; where whoever was taking the photos had snipped away at some of the wrapping on one of the corpses, to reveal the right side of a approximately twenty year old male with dry salt grains on his skin.

Not saying a word John placed both the photos inside the apricot coloured folder, set it on the table and sat on the side of his chair, which Sherlock was currently occupying, and waited for an expansion from one of the two males. Mycroft was the first to come to the rescue. Leaving Sherlock to his own blissful state.

"These photographs were taken by a exploring tourist, who just happened to stumble upon this tunnel, which not even the government was aware existed. The tunnel itself can only be described as a tomb. Twenty-seven total male corpses line its walls, and so far no females have been discovered. In addition to all the corpses being male, they have all been recently mummified, the longest they have been dead has been  estimated at only a decade at most, and the most resent has only been dead for a year." John was astonished to say the least, the fact that someone mummified in  _London_ , and the fact that they had gotten away with it with Sherlock Holmes here, was enough to make his head spin.

"Sherlock was not.. Shall we say 'in commission' a decade ago." For a second John didn't know what he was talking about, then it hit him. A decade ago Sherlock was only eight teen, and although Sherlock was probably smart as hell back then, he would still have been using drugs to dull his brain power. He wouldn't have noticed a couple of unimportant disappearances. Or he would have noticed, just found it extremely boring. The later being the most likely hypothesis. As for the more resent ones, the detective wasn't known to like disappearance cases.

"Wait Mycroft what do these tunnels have to with the government?"

"Absolutely nothing, I simply thought my  _dea_ r little brother would find this case rather interesting." Mycroft was staring at John rather expectantly, however the doctor couldn't figure out why. Perhaps he was awaiting approval? But that would be to trivial for the older Holmes, no it was most certainly something else. However John didn't have the time to make up even a small deduction, for the known gentlemen was on his feet in a matter of moments, the expression gone. Almost reluctantly Mycroft left with a simple "Talk to you soon John" and left the flat, leaving the folder on the table for further investigation. It was then did the blond remember the tea, and promptly smacked himself in the forehead. Looking over Sherlock appeared to be in what you could only call a 'Sherlock state' at least that's what John called it when the detective was so far out of it that, he wouldn't even register anything for at least two hours. That included John going out for a pint with Greg Lestrade, or on a date with Sally.

So after a brief second of pondering the ex-solider decided to go out to the pub on his own, and simply ponder upon things. With that thought in mind the blond simply though on a jumper and wondered outside locking the door behind him.

It was only slightly chilly outside anyway, the morning rain having taken only some of the otherwise warm, and friendly day. For a second the doctor debated whether or not he should quickly pop back in, grab his brolly, and then pop back out again. But quickly dismissed the idea, as it was unnecessary, the sky was turning back to its usual blue, and the clouds had grown fluffy and were now in the process of withdrawing. John had the faintest feeling that something particular bad was going to happen today, but he didn't particularly want to think such things, for knowing his luck, something bad would happen.

{{*}}

There was a quite pleasant humming going on inside John's head. Somewhere in the confines of his mind he registered he was indeed drunk, after all he had quite a few shots of Vodka in the past hour, and his tolerance for alcohol wasn't terribly high. At least when he was drunk he didn't blubber like a idiot, or lash out like someone on crack. No he simply had a soft humming and a sense of tranquility around him when he was intoxicated. For some reason John could easily think of Sherlock as the angry drunk type, after all the man was continuously calm and in control. It wouldn't be surprising if when not thinking properly he would lash out and yell at anything in sight. Which was actually a very frightening thought to John.

That had been happening a lot lately, he would sort of daze off and think of the consulting detective for no reason what so ever. Like what his childhood was like, he had heard that Sherlock came from a rather rich family, but strayed off course when he was ten and disappeared to the mercy of the streets. He wondered what that would have been like, having come from such a rich family and then suddenly becoming the dirt underfoot of other family's like his own. What it was like to be cold almost all the time, and having to search for shelter. John flinched at that thought, and made a somewhat hazy mental note to give some money to the homeless. Then there was the question on how his reunion with his family had gone after Lestrade had found him.

All of a sudden it dawned on him. In a cold pub, on Thursday March 6th John Harmish Watson figured out that he was in love with William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

He was right something bad did happen that day. Something terribly bad.


End file.
